


milk and lemon zest

by Profundus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst with a Happy Ending, Casual Sex, Feelings Realization, Friends With Benefits, Heavy Angst, Hypersexuality, Jealousy, M/M, Non-Explicit, Omega Verse, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:55:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27190738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Profundus/pseuds/Profundus
Summary: make me a fragrance that smells like lovelike our embrace, our kiss, our lifeand if it takes my suffering for that fragranceso be it
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 13
Kudos: 82





	milk and lemon zest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tisapear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisapear/gifts).



"Iwa-chan," Tooru whines.

Of course he whines, he always does when he wants something, especially when he _wants._

"Do your homework," Hajime says, still bent over the table, not sure whether his handwriting is smudged or his head is just swimming from the sweetness in Tooru's scent that sticks to his throat like powdered sugar, a taste he can't swallow down, can only swallow along.

"I can't concentrate. Not like this. Iwa-chan."

He never begs. Only ever says his name, like it's all Hajime really needs to hear from him. And it always is. It's always enough, always his downfall when those sinful lips curl around his name in all the wrong ways that feel so right. He's barely dropped his pen, hasn't even closed the book when Tooru is already in his lap, panting, flushed skin accentuated further by the light from the window that paints caramel highlights into his hair. The hand that slips into Hajime's pants is warm and slick and all he can really do as he leans back and stares up at Tooru is wonder how long he's been touching himself across the table.

"Been thinking about this all day," Tooru sighs – relieved, almost – as he peels his own trousers down, too loose and too short for anything but lounging about the house and still he wore them to class today, and Hajime's breath catches.

 _I know,_ he wants to say, _I see it in the way you look at me. I see it in the way you don't look at me. I hear it in your voice and in your silence. Because it's all you ever think about._

The realization, although present since far too long ago, still hurts, will always hurt, no matter how much time and how many too-casual nights pass between them. Tooru won't ever want anything else than his sweet relief, the fireworks at the end of a good fuck, and Hajime has been hurting for far longer than he should. Nobody deserves to have Tooru in their arms when they can't keep him there.

"You should know by now I'm only doing this to shut you up," he says, too rough as he throws Tooru out of his lap and forces him down onto the table instead, trying to ignore the gloating grin on those lips he loves when they say his name and hates when they smile at anyone else.

"Pretend all you want, I know you've been hard ever since we got home."

How can he not be, when the entire apartment is filled with Tooru. His laughter, his scent, his heat, his clothes strewn across the floor, his moans and the sweetness of his skin as Hajime latches onto his neck, tearing at the shirt he's wearing _(stupid thing, translucent, paper-thin)_ and weighs him down with all of his body. Still a few centimeters shorter than Tooru, it gnaws on his pride, but stronger after all. Alpha physique, they call it, and Hajime knows that Tooru is gone the moment his back hits the table.

It's never been any different.

He's so desperate Hajime would laugh if the thought wasn't burning bitter on his tongue that there could be anyone doing this to Tooru and he would still purr in frantic excitement like he does right now, would still submissively turn his head and would still smell so sweet Hajime feels the beginning of nausea rising from his stomach. But he shoves those thoughts away, wants them as far from this moment as somehow possible.

"Tooru," he gasps, fingers moving from one sensitive spot to another, muscle memory setting in where his thoughts end in shambles. "Tooru, Tooru, _Tooru—"_

Maybe if he just calls for him long enough, Tooru will understand, will finally grasp at the feelings Hajime pours into every syllable of his silent confession, feelings he needs to get out or he will explode one day. But Tooru is always so busy basking in pleasure – nothing else can breach this crystal skin that only freezes, only hardens under ardent love. Self-destruct is his armor and Hajime has yet to find its weak spot. The living embodiment of ride or die, all or nothing, Tooru continues to slip through his fingers, obscure, abstruse like fog. There yet gone. And Hajime keeps chasing shadows in the dark.

The sex is rough. Nothing is gentle about bruising grips and biting nails, but it's how Tooru wants it: quick and hard, just the means to an end, displacement of the feverish lust that overwhelms him at the most inconvenient of times, sends him crawling into Hajime's lap in front of the TV, dragging him out of his lessons into unoccupied classrooms, waking him at night to get his fill, already dripping slick and whining, always whining.

Maybe it's Hajime's own fault for never resisting, never refusing, letting Tooru have his way as he pleases all the time. But if he isn't the one to satisfy him, who is? One of those faceless Alphas leering after them in the hallway, whispering things to Tooru when Hajime isn't paying enough attention, slipping notes with numbers into his bag, his hands, his locker?

The sheer imagery hurts more than the nails clawing deep into his skin through the shirt he's wearing and Hajime curses, foul words stifled against the pure milky white of Tooru's collarbone where the skin is hot and raw from teeth and lips.

 _Mine,_ he thinks and knows Tooru isn't, has never been, will never be, and that hurts even worse.

He knows the keen, the breathless noise that comes from deep within Tooru's chest. He knows every ripple of those beautiful muscles, knows every angle of Tooru's body more intimately than he'd ever admit, knows every inch of this glistening skin, knows all those sounds by heart – from the soft little gasps to the full-on cries _(every neighbor knows my name)_ that resound from and remain in the walls of their apartment, cling to Hajime's head for longer than he likes but for shorter than he wants.

Those sounds are only meant for him.

Tooru is only meant for him.

The awareness hits with their climax – hard and cold in contrast to the heat of the moment – as Hajime comes and leans up, his chest heaving. He still feels the slick tightness encompassing him, feels Tooru shaking for another moment before his body slackens and he lets himself melt into Hajime's arms that are always there to catch him after the freefall. His hair, damp with sweat, is splayed out across the table, across the now-never-to-be-finished homework with his eyes closed, lashes resting heavily on his crimson-dusted cheeks. Hajime shifts, cautiously, knowing how sensitive Tooru gets. They need to stop studying together. It never gets him anywhere.

"Hmn… don't move." Tapered fingertips move up to his nape, lightly curling into the short hair there. Hajime shudders. The prickling sparks eating away at his spine already feel like fire, and Tooru has barely touched him.

"Idiot. I would never hurt you."

_Same doesn't go for you, apparently._

"I know."

Tooru yawns. He gradually rolls his hips, testing how far his body will let him go. The expertise with which he disregards Hajime's low groan at the sudden overstimulation is almost ridiculous, given that his hands clutch the edge of the table too, knuckles going paper-white, and he throws his head back with a shaky sigh.

"God. I keep forgetting how big you are."

"I'm always here to remind you."

Even though it hurts like shit. To feel Tooru's bare skin against his own, to feel him writhe slightly, trying to adjust as he wraps his legs around Hajime's waist and coils both arms around his neck, sated for now as he nuzzles into the strong neck before him. It's the calm after the storm, but Hajime knows better than to bask in it. Only makes the transition to harsh reality even worse.

"Better?" he still asks, quiet and gentle as he caresses Tooru's back up and down, pulling his notebook closer once more. Concentrating on homework is hard, bordering impossible, with how close they are right now and how good it feels.

"Much," Tooru whispers, but then he chuckles. "Are you honestly going to look at a damn math book when you've got a gorgeous Omega in your lap?"

He's definitely not in pain anymore. Hajime knows how agonizing it can get for Tooru, has seen him at his worst after two days of their longest fight, barely able to stand up straight and whining, whining in this soft voice that is only for Hajime. It's his, all of this here is his. Tooru breathing softly across his nape, toying with the hem of his shirt, smelling ungodly delicious like milk and lemon zest.

"Fuck off kindly. Arrogant asshole."

"You want me here."

 _Yes,_ Hajime thinks, and the longing devours him like a starving beast, _yes, I want you here. Please, never leave._

* * *

The sky is hanging so low over the city it feels like the clouds are reaching down towards them. Something aches inside and Hajime knows it's his soul because that pain is so unmistakably _Tooru_ that the taste lingers on the inside of his cheek. Lungs stuffed with cotton, temper flaring, he stares at the Alpha who is so blatantly hanging over Tooru's desk, like Hajime's scent isn't lingering in every crevice of the wooden tabletop, in every fiber of Tooru's clothes.

"You're pretty," the Alpha says, eyes half-lidded but Hajime can see where his gaze lingers.

"I've been told."

There it is. The serpentine leer. Empty. Dishonest. Hajime knows it, but only because it's the one Tooru directs at everyone, even at him. His usual smile. Somehow, that's comforting. This Alpha isn't special. He's just one of many who try to get their hands on Tooru because he's handsome, he's smart, he's witty and strong and he carries himself with the air of a soldier, but in his eyes there's smoke from an ardent fire.

It hurts, hot and heavy, and an agony he hasn't felt in years is chewing on the rotten insides of Hajime's head like his own nails chew into his skin, drawing fresh redness to the white of his palms, pretty fingers that can hold so gently now nearly breaking bones. There is no outside world any longer. No punishment waiting for Tooru (now laughing), no fear of retribution, no repercussion.

The punishment is for Hajime.

Tooru isn't doing anything wrong. Tooru is just looking at the Alpha crouching before his desk now, grinning, amused, triumphant, so certain of victory his scent oozes into every inch of the classroom. Some of the others are looking, _staring,_ mostly Alphas. Alphas who have tried and failed to draw that laugh from Tooru, looking straight past Hajime when they run into him and Tooru in the hall as if he's nonexistent, his presence eviscerated when their focus is on the Omega by his side, unmated, unclaimed – fair game.

Lightning flashes across the sky outside, but the flicker continues behind Hajime's eyes.

It's his eyes the other Alphas avoid and reject, because when Tooru is around, they aren't completely human. When Tooru is around, they are feral. The eyes of a wild animal, eyes that speak of bared teeth and fear and _don't come closer_ because there is a trembling jaw ready to bite down.

"Iwa-chan," a voice sings into his ear, hands on his shoulders, a warm weight on his thighs and his arm coils around Tooru's waist as fluid and swift as if this man is merely an extension of his own body. He presses his nose into the hollow of Tooru's neck and inhales.

Milk and lemon and maybe a hint of apples. He's showered this morning. Used the body wash he likes so much. Hajime knows because he still smells it on his hands too, the hands he's had all over Tooru's skin only a few hours ago, the fingers he's had inside him even though he knows they'll end up in an empty classroom anyway at school.

"Hm?" he hums softly, trying and failing to pretend he doesn't notice the fingers dancing across the buckle of his belt. Tooru's hair tickles his face, mint-fresh breath cools his cheeks that run hot with fever.

"You know, the next period is study hall."

_You know, I've gotten quite good at recognizing the level of horny you're currently on just by how fast you're breathing._

He doesn't say it out loud, but Tooru knows his mind better than he does himself. He grinds his crotch against Hajime, motion subtle and fluid, flexible hips shifting just right to meet all sweet spots even through their clothes and Hajime knows he's a goner.

The other Alpha has retreated to the open windows, crossed arms and obscured eyes betraying his anger but his searing gaze follows them as they leave. Dozens of people turn and whisper and glare in the hallway while Hajime can do nothing but cling to Tooru's hand _(I'm never going to let you let me go)_ and silently bare his teeth at the people staring too long for it to be casual.

The crowd that drools after Tooru is a merciless creature with too many heads and not a single heart, and no matter how many of them Hajime fights off, there are always more after every strike. But the dragon keeps defending his princess.

He wishes Tooru would stay in his safe tower.

* * *

Akin to the storm outside, Hajime is raging inside.

Tooru senses the cracks in the frail façade, but his only way of mending Hajime is just the way to break him, too, so he makes himself scarce and flees to his room _(I've never understood why we need separate rooms when we end up sharing beds five nights a week because you're horny and I'm desperate and we feed off each other in a way that frightens others and me even more)_ so he can hide from the lightning.

Tooru has never liked thunderstorms.

Hands shaking, Hajime digs for his phone, pacing, sweating. His rut is worse than ever, eyes black and sinister with want, a want he can't force upon Tooru when he's not in heat. It hurts to see how unaligned their cycles are. It hurts to know there's a hallway and a door separating them and nobody here to stop him.

"Hajime-chan, it's a surprise to hear from you!"

"Kaa-san, I—"

He breaks, he crumbles into a mess of sobs on the floor of the living room. The magnitude of this fucked-up sudden rut properly sinks into his skin. "Let me talk to Tou-san, please," he chokes through clenched jaws, teeth grinding until it hurts.

"Hajime-chan, breathe, please," his mother begs, and he hears doors opening, closing on the other end of the line. "Please calm down, I'm here with you. I'll get him on the phone."

He doesn't think he can hear much over the sound of his own breaking heart. Why does this wreck him so much? Why does the emptiness of the living room bother him more than the ice-cold fire in his guts? When was the last time he's felt so defeated?

"Hajime. I'm here."

The voice sounds familiar.

"Tou-san, please," he gasps, words halting, stagnant, and feeling wrong on his lips.

"Breathe, Hajime. Count with me. Will you? One."

"T-Two," he whispers, shakily, barely in control of his voice.

"Very good. Three."

"Four."

They're up to twenty-four when Hajime can open his eyes and up to thirty-seven when the shaking stops.

"I fucked up."

"I doubt it."

"I fucked up everything. He doesn't want me."

"Hajime, we've been over this. It isn't your fault. How far are you into your rut? You know you overreact sometimes."

"I didn't keep track."

His father sighs, exasperated, understanding. Definitely his son.

"Where's Tooru?" he asks, not sure if the conversation is ready to divert to that topic again, but he needs to know. Needs to be able to get Hajime out of there if things go bad quickly.

"His room."

_Our room._

"Is he nesting?"

"I don't know," Hajime whispers, pulls his knees to his chest. "He's far from his heat."

There's a sharp inhale, another sigh. "Then why don't you go ask him if he'll allow you into his nest?"

_Because if he even opens the door to his room, I don't know if I can hold back. I don't know if I can even look at him without doing something reprehensible to him. He trusts me. More than anyone else. Enough to let me fuck him without fearing I'll mark him. If I abuse that trust now, I'll lose him forever. I already barely have him. I can't lose what little is still left._

"I'll stay on the phone with you," his father offers calmly, "and if you feel like you're losing control, just give me a sign. I'll be there for you. We'll make sure you two get through this, alright?"

Resistance is futile. He knows he won't last long against his own father, anyway, and Tooru really cracks the door open when Hajime knocks. His shoulders are tense and his gaze is wary, but he steps aside to make space for Hajime nevertheless, eyes quickly flitting from the phone in his hands to the sweat on his brow.

"Everything alright?" he asks in that cotton-candy voice of his, the one that dissolves on Hajime's tongue. "You look bad. Sure you should be here?"

"I can still control myself," Hajime says through his teeth.

Tooru wrinkles his nose, unbearably cute, and something dark glimmers in his eyes that isn't so cute but dangerous and corrupt instead. "Hmm. You smell good. Sweeter."

_Way to go, Sherlock. I'm in rut and you are just persistently horny._

"Nest. I wanted to ask if you'd let me into your nest. You don't— You don't have to stay with me there," Hajime mutters, suddenly feeling more stupid than ever before. How pathetic. To crawl into his childhood friend's nest just to get some kind of relief from his rut.

Tooru thinks for a moment, his lips dry and chapped, pinkish tongue creeping into the corner of his mouth. Then, he smiles.

"Alright. Go ahead. I'll be right there."

When he steps out of the bathroom a moment later, hair neatly pinned back, clothes lost somewhere on his way, the phone lies discarded on the ground. He shuts it off, tosses it onto the bed and follows the alluring scent of Alpha and lemon zest with a glint of wetness on his thighs.

* * *

"I want you to move out."

Tooru shows no sign of reacting, eyes glued to somewhere far beyond the TV screen where Hajime can't follow. The only indicator that betrays he's heard the words is his jaw clenching tightly around the spoon in his mouth. Teeth on stainless steel, a noise that crawls under Hajime's skin and itches there. For a moment, those eyes that never quite look at him lately, blink. Once. Twice.

If he'd just ask. Just ask a single question – _Why do you want me to move out? Why so suddenly? What did I do? Why are you bringing this up now?_ – then maybe Hajime would've been able to spit out the confession he's been chewing for too long under his tongue. It's tasteless now, bland and dull, too drenched with Hajime's insecurities, his doubt, his quiet acceptance.

But Tooru doesn't ask, just quietly nods, spoon now pressed to the roof of his mouth. Hajime wishes he would hit him. Scream. Yell. Slap him across the face. Laugh at him. Tell him how pitiful it is that he needs to get rid of Tooru to safe himself from the heartache. Do anything but sit there and take it like _(like you've taken it year for year for year for year for year for year for—)_ he doesn't even care.

Maybe he doesn't.

The spoon clatters to the floor, trembles for a moment, then stills.

Tooru's curled up on the other side of the couch, flushed neck highlighted by the rosy shimmer the TV emits. There is a silver glisten on his skin, one Hajime wants to kiss away, drop by drop. Between them, Tooru should be the insatiable one, and he is, but sometimes it feels like Hajime isn't a single bit better. This is no longer hunger. This is famine.

He's starved for this man.

Tense, almost apprehensively, Hajime follows the sound of Tooru sighing, discarding the bowl of ice cream in his hand, getting up. He shouldn't have been worried.

"You're so badly in love, it's ridiculous." And he manages to sound serious as he says it, straddles Hajime's lap and peels the jacket from his shoulders. "Is that what you want? For me to love you? Because I can do that. I can act the part, if that's what you want."

For all they're worth, for all the sex and stupid nighttime talks and shared thoughts nobody else is ever supposed to hear, there are still borders in their relationship – visible and invisible. And Tooru is still so _bad_ at knowing when to cross them, after all those years. He sits there, smiling, fingertip slightly tracing the curve of his Cupid's bow where Hajime knows the taste of his sugar-sweet talk sticks to the most, where he's kissed it away more often than he can count.

"One night," Tooru says softly, and Hajime forgets to breathe.

"One night," he agrees with racing heart.

One night of pretending is better than another night of suffering. One night of imagining Tooru belongs with him is better than another night of knowing he doesn't. One night. A reprieve, one last respite, one last chance to breathe before he bans this scent of milk and lemon from his life.

They take their time.

For once.

For once, it's not Tooru whispering dirty, colorful nothings into his ears, against his neck, interrupted only by gasps and cries and soft whimpers and demands of _harder, faster_ to which Hajime will always comply, even though sometimes he wonders why Tooru's crystal skin hasn't shattered yet. Tonight, he doesn't have to. He can be as gentle as he wants, as slow as he wants, all while Tooru buries the impatience that always simmers in his marrow as deep as Hajime loves him.

Tooru is an actor.

Born and bred to play, deceive and mislead. An exquisite delusion, perfect down to every detail. From his soft, quiet moans to the hands he runs through Hajime's hair when they kiss – not the rushed kisses, chasing after a quick relief, but real kisses. Unhurried. Passionate. Just how Hajime has always imagined their first kiss to be. How he wants all of their kisses to be.

"Tooru," he whispers, as if saying the name for the last time. It already feels foreign on his tongue. "Tooru."

"Iwa-chan," Tooru purrs back, mellow and soft as he arches his back and shifts his legs apart, but he doesn't grab Hajime's hand like he usually would. Tonight, he's patient, even more than he'd have to be.

The sex is slow, far-off today, but it's never been so good before. It takes them seconds, even less than seconds, to find their rhythm, the one they know better than their own heartbeats, because it comes naturally to them. Like it should between lovers. But Tooru doesn't love, just wants, Hajime realizes when he catches the smile on those cruel lips and he can see through it like it's glass, can see the mockery behind the gentle curve of Tooru's mouth.

"I love you," he gasps, shaking, knowing the blandness of the confession collides with every flavor he tastes on his tongue from their kisses. "I love you. I've always loved you. I will always love you. Tooru, I love you."

It's the split second of hesitation in those soft, hazel eyes before he reciprocates that ruins the last wall Hajime has built to protect Tooru from his love.

* * *

_Are you jealous, Iwa-chan?_

_I'm not._

_You don't have to be._

_Says the idiot who sits in everyone's lap after as much as a glance in his direction._

_I only sit in your lap._

_You never stay there._

_Say, you know the definition of jealous, right, Iwa-chan?_

_Fuck off, Shittykawa._

_You're still my number one._

_In bed._

_Is that so bad? Not many people have touched this gorgeous body._

_I am about to. To throw you in front of a fucking car._

_Rude. Hey, put that book down at least._

_Get out of my lap._

_Make up your mind, Iwa-chan._

_My mind was always made up. Just stay._

_I will._

* * *

He doesn't.

Hajime keeps his eyes closed. They're breathing heavily, still curled up in each other's arms like always and yet they could've just as well been in different time zones. He never wants to move again, wants to cancel this all from his memory. He doesn't even budge when Tooru gets up, doesn't even look when he hears the bathroom door opens, doesn't even blink when the shower water starts running. From how long Tooru showers, he knows there won't be any warm water left.

So, he just stays where he is, unmoving, staring at the ceiling above like it holds the solution to the turmoil in his head. The shower stops, but the noises continue and then they don't and suddenly, Tooru is gone.

He doesn't stay.

When Hajime finally starts crying, the sky outside is bloody red and the sun has already begun to rise. He cries until he feels alive again, then he curls into the clothes Tooru has left on the floor last night, the ones they've stripped off as soon as they got home yesterday because Tooru is hotheaded an impulsive and Hajime is too tired to resist. He clutches the shirt, noses at the collar where the scent of milk and lemon zest is strongest, and cries again.

It takes a long time to rid the apartment of Tooru because every memory clings to the walls as if it's scared of letting go, but maybe that's just Hajime.

If there's a place like hell, then he's been through it and he isn't scared any longer of whatever happens. Sometimes, he wonders if Tooru has been led slowly, step by step, into the raging inferno, or screaming and crying like he was.

The only thing that comes close to hell is the nights when he wakes up, lack of warmth next to him unnerving, irritating, and Tooru pounding on the door, begging for him to open up. The dim light from the kitchen never suffices to chase away the shadows that crowd the apartment while Hajime drinks the sounds away, though is balance is off as he stumbles to the cabinet for another drink, even without the taste of liquor in his mouth. It's the only way he can resist to open the door.

But Tooru doesn't love. Tooru only wants.

Hajime wants too, but he either wants Tooru in his arms or out of his life, and neither one is possible, so he suffers through his personal hell while the absolution to his sins burns worse than the alcohol.

* * *

Tooru rolls over, still feverish but satisfied for the moment. His nose wrinkles, but it slips past the man sitting on the edge of the mattress as he lights another cigarette. The whole apartment reeks of smoke, a smell Tooru can barely stand. It helps to rid his thoughts of another scent from so long ago. His body is burning, but the flames feed off of the Alphas he takes home.

"Still horny?" the man asks, because he knows the answer and that Tooru is hurting in a way he can't fix in the slightest, but he can provide a relief – if only for minutes at a time but it's time well spent.

"Do you need an answer?"

"I need you to shut up."

And Tooru purrs, all indulgent soft compliant sweet obliging Omega, but his gaze is distant as the man pulls him into his lap and mouths at his throat, pushes into him and stretches him open like so often over the past few days that Tooru needs to adjustment, no recuperation from the conscious response of his body. It's a silent denial, painful and slow, this inner indignance over Hajime's absence.

It's something Tooru can't change because his scent has always been sweet milk and never lemon zest.

He trembles, legs shaking as he drops his weight, too exhausted to hold himself upright now that the world is crumbling at his very hands and he's no longer bound to pretend the tears in his eyes are from simple overstimulation when they aren't and the lies he tells himself have already started to decay, but there are firm hands holding his shoulders and a warm body he can curl up against as his climax takes over him and strips his synapses bare.

"I hate you!" he sobs, and dissolves into a mess of pure, unadulterated rage that has been dormant in the back of his mind for as long as he can remember. "I hate you, I fucking hate you! It's always you and it's never enough, it's always you, fucking, you, you— _it's not fair, it's so unfair, it's ridiculous! You can't make me, you can't be serious! I hate you!"_

For a moment, there's a quiet Tooru has missed in life, the kind of serene quiet Hajime's arms provide and that has been gone ever since the night he took too long to say back what has been hiding behind his crystal skin since the beginning of time.

"This… isn't about me," the man says and brushes his tears away delicately, but Tooru keeps on crying, barely recovering from the tremors that shake his entire body.

"No," he whimpers pathetically, "and he can't ever know."

* * *

Hajime tries to ignore him, steps over his worn and weathered sneakers and unlocks the door as if he isn't there. Still, his eyes betray him and he can barely bring himself to look away again. Not when Tooru is sitting there by the door like a kitten someone has pulled from the gutter on a rainy day, shaking and clutching his knees. His hair is sopping wet and hangs down into his forehead, obscuring his face.

"What are you doing here?" Hajime asks, but his attempt at sounding unbothered only makes his voice crack. He kicks off his shoes, frantic to get inside and shut Tooru out again like he's managed to do so often lately, but this time, a cool hand clutches his wrist and doesn't let go.

"I tried to live without you. I can't even breathe when you're not around."

"Don't go there, Oikawa. I told you we are through with this. I'll see you at school tomorrow. Don't forget your lunch again."

_You know I still care._

It goes unsaid.

Tooru breaks into shallow sobs, buries his face in his hands and all Hajime does is grit his teeth and fight the urge to comfort him like he's done so often when they've been little and Tooru has been so, so much worse at handling his own body.

"Get up, Tooru," he finally says quietly, too harsh for comfort. "Get up and stop crying, idiot."

But it's him who kneels down at last and hugs Tooru to his chest, closes his eyes, forgives them both and breathes the sweet smell that lingers on the white skin to his dark mind. It's not how Hajime has imagined Tooru coming back to him, but at least he's back now. At least he can hold him.

He buries his nose in the wetness of Tooru's hair and the scent of warm milk eats through him like a drug. No lemon zest, he realizes with his eyes half-lidded and his heart aflame with more love than he's ever thought he could feel, but then he allows his lids to slide shut and holds Tooru even closer.

Tooru wants, and so does Hajime.

But they still love, and he will make sure to put the lemon zest back in Tooru's scent.

**Author's Note:**

> Another, this time very self-indulgent fic, for my lovely wife who dragged me into this hellhole of obsession. Dont get me wrong, I dont wanna leave here, ever, as long as I can sit with her and scream about those characters I barely know so Im good tbh.
> 
> Thanks for reading, everybody!!!
> 
> sorry, waifu, it angsty, I know :(


End file.
